Asphyxiation
by starchetti
Summary: as·phyx·i·a·tion /əsˌfiksēˈāSH(ə)n/ Noun: The state or process of being deprived of oxygen, which can result in unconsciousness or death; suffocation. Ex: "The cause of death was asphyxiaton."


Asphyxiation was always an interesting word to him, it seemed to roll off his tongue; bring a momentary blithe note to his monotone orchestra. The charm of it could not be compared to others. Suffocating, smothering, stifling- All words school had taught him. All ideas school- or rather society as a whole, had taught him. All the ideals that society forced down his throat, have him choke on the relentless and repetitive goals.

Graduate, they said.

Get a job, they told him.

Work hard, they prompted him.

Earn money, they urged him.

Buy a house, they warned (Ha! He could barely live on his own).

Get married, they threatened- To what extent would it stop? Never. Each goal he would scramble towards, each ladder rung he grasped in earnest was futile, for it was just replaced with another. It kept constricting and binding, tighter and tighter. Harsher and harsher. Colder and colder until 'snap!'. It would continue until a chill skeletal hand would grasp his throat, soothing away the burns of the noose. The course tips would run along the marks he bore. But that was not yet. Not yet, not yet could he have peace. Not yet , would the marks along his neck be bared to world. Not yet could anyone see it- even he couldn't see it, but he could feel it. He could feel it; perhaps it was the only thing he could feel. But he didn't want to feel, he didn't want to see even; he just wanted to be. To be what? He didn't know. There seemed no purpose, no point to anything he did. What would happen next? He would get promoted. Then what? Another promotion, or even get laid off. Who knew? And then what? Retirement. That was, if he made it that far.

The sheets rustled beneath him, teal hues wide awake and boring into the ceiling above. He didn't have time to sleep. Yet, he wanted to. Why didn't he have time? For what goals? There was no lofty ambition, no glass tower to construct. He didn't have any, there was nothing for him to achieve. He merely held the match to set flames to paper dreams. He could only inhale the whispers of smoke, hoping, wishing, praying that it would-

The dull glow of his computer shone before him, bidding him closer- a moth to a flame. It seemed almost transcendent, casting its rays of divinity from the other side of the room.

What if he stopped working?

What would he be?

What was he now?

He was Doppo, wasn't he? Kannonzaka Doppo,

no?

He mulled as he heaved himself up. The rope of his woes felt taunt along his neck. Everything felt taunt. The crinkle of his suit along the stiff shelf of his shoulder. The creases of once pristine linen along his malnourished form. A scowl graced the melancholy, teal boring into the dull azure that glowed from the screen. Papers had to be completed. But who was he? Reports needed to be handed in. Did anything he do mattered? There were deadlines to meet. The dull light suddenly seemed harsh and imposing. The wrath of a transcendence looming over him, scorning him for straying. His repentance was caught up in his throat. He couldn't beg for mercy, he could not beseech for forgiveness. For if he did, the cycle would continue. On and on. Progressing and progressing- a myth, progression was a myth, there was no finish line. There was no ball to search for.

But it still drove him.

His drives had turned into incentives and his incentives to be drives. He clawed at his throat, nails raking along the porcelain in earnest as he gasped for breath. The words would not tumble out, his tongue turned cotton and the sand of his own infidelity poured down his throat. It hurt, the nails that raked down, the liquid crystal that burned, the speech that was constrained. Could he call out for help? No, maybe, he didn't know. He didn't know. Would he get help? He didn't know. All he knew was suffocating. The rope was too tight, the rope, the rope, the rope…

….

…

…

Asphyxiation.

The light was still bright. The darkness seemed to twist and turn by the dull yet impeccably harsh light, it's sapphire brilliance washing over him. He always thought of it, yes, that he did. It always crept in the corner of his mind. It snuck on him as he glanced out the glass high rise. It whispered as he crossed the road. It stalked him everywhere- rather, he let it follow him. He dwelled in its company when all others were absent. Others, he didn't have much. A small family. Would they be considered 'others'? Was everyone but himself an 'other'? Was he just an 'other' to 'others' but a 'self' to himself?

With a groan of upheaval, he forced himself off the bed; sheets rustling once more. His bed, it seemed relatively new. Unused. When was the last time he slept? Why did it matter, it didn't bring him income. What was the saying? To sleep, to die, to die, to sleep. To sleep was to die, to die was to finally sleep. How he wanted to sleep. He didn't care of dreaming, he didn't heed to the silver veil that laid upon a path most intangible. He just wanted to sleep, to rest, to be at peace . To be away from the noise, to be alone- he was alone now. The silence lingering about in the shared flat was proof of that. Hifumi was out late again, presumably working. Hifumi had goals, he had something to achieve with work. Hifumu could find the luster that he couldn't seem to find, a balm against his melancholy. Hifumi was a brilliance on the dull existence of humanity, the gold that men sought- but mistook for cold metal. What was the value in gold? There was nothing in the gold that is valuable, was it it's relative 'rareness'? In that case, following the logic of economics- the guillotine all of men marched towards with briefcases and suits, wouldn't that make Hifumi intrinsically invaluable? Hifumi had a price for his services, he looked it up once for...reasons- but his value. Hifumu had a value he couldn't even begin to describe, it was as vast as the ocean and as deep as the sea. Nowadays, everyone knows the price of everything but the value of nothing. But Hifumi was not nothing, he was something. He was his salvation, his balm. An ointment for the burns along his neck, the burns which the rope left. Hifumi could soothe the taunt away from his form, smooth the creases along his soul. His soul, Hifumi could mend his soul as easily as he would mend his worn suits. He was skilled with his hands, a trait Doppo was sure that were the source of many innuendos. Where was Hifumi? Out late again, at work. Work, that's right. He still had work to do. But why? He could have screamed in anguish for it not been his own transgressions that silenced him. The flat was silent, an eerie calm. Hifumi was gone- not absent, but gone. Hifumi was gone, so all he could do was linger in the company of the suffocating silence.

It was almost too much bear. He drew closer to the computer, his pace shuffling and clumsy. He felt as though he was being sent to his death. He moved passed the brilliance of the screen, his eyes burning as he carried forth. The thuds in his heart served as the band, drumming the macabre tune with each dreadful step. The creek of his door resounded ominously through the chill silence, it seemed as though the atmosphere itself was holding its breath. The only sound was the pounding funeral march within the cage of ribs.

It was dark, but that didn't matter. He could easily maneuver his way towards the kitchen, the chill of the cold floor beneath him should have curled his toes; yet, he was accustomed to the cold. He had a report due. This was fine. The deadlines still weren't met. That was fine. He could have gotten fired. For what did he care? The silence continued, even his own heartbeat deafening in his ears. Everything seemed to wait in anticipation as he turned on the gas oven, the soft ignition of flames bringing in a fleeting warmth. He read about this, it should work. The beats returned, he could hear the blood rushing in through his ears. Was he crying? He wasn't sure. Was he shaking? He wasn't sure. His world was limited to the soft smoke wafting off the flames. Hifumi would be late. Hifumi was out working again. Hifumi would be fine, because Hifumi was valuable. The oven door opened wordlessly, as it should have, everything was so quiet but felt so loud. What time was it? Late, that's all he knew. Late for 'others'. What about his self? That didn't matter. Not anymore.

He crouched down eye-level, how long had he been staring? How much time had passed? He wasn't wearing his watch. If he didn't wear a watch, did that make time non-existent? He couldn't feel it pass by, he merely had to relay on something other than himself to tell him. But wasn't that the case with everything? The smoke began to thicken, the fumes turning putrid and dark. A starless night. As the atmosphere inhaled, as was he about to, it was close, the grip would leave his neck, he would leave-

But then the front door opened with a 'bam!'

In his bewilderment he stumbled over, the panic deafening the greeting that was bellowed out. He felt as though the world had been pulled from beneath his feet. He couldn't out the blurred form that rushed over to his side- did they turn off the stove? Damn it. They shook him, called out his name repeatedly. Was it Hifumi? He could make out the locks of gold, the only kind of gold he would find valuable.

"Just cooking." He mumbled in his daze, pulled aflush the other's form. He could hear the worried chatter, but he didn't take heed. He treated the inquires as rhetoric, allowing himself to be pulled away from the apartment. It was too loud, he just wanted to sleep. He curled upon the carpet of the hallway, Hifumi's was making a call, he thought. Something of monoxide and poisoning. He could only drearily groan to himself.

He still had reports to give in.

It was asphyxiating.


End file.
